I’m Not Okay
I’m not okay, but I wear the light,
like a candle trembling through a failed night.
Everything bends, then breaks, then bleeds,
a quiet ruin built from hidden needs.
I don’t say a word; I only smile and lie,
like truth is a bird I taught myself to deny.
I whisper, “I’m fine,” through a mouth of dust,
while my heart grows brittle, worn thin with rust.
I keep my pain where no one can see,
locked in the walls of what used to be me.
Some wounds go deep where the sunlight dies,
and even my silence has learned to cry.
I stand in the hollow, sharp and bare,
with a cracked-out soul and a choking prayer.
The room keeps breathing, the clock drags on,
and every small hope feels broken and gone.
Still I remain where the shadows cling,
holding my sorrow like a shattered thing.
And if my voice trembles, if my hands betray,
it’s only the weight of another cruel day.
I’m not okay—no, I’m barely here—
just a fading shadow inside my fear.
But Lord, You hold what I cannot keep,
and You stay awake when my soul won’t sleep.
So I will endure through the night’s long ache,
until that faithful day, when the dark must break.